


Bad Medicine

by Revelation



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - It's a Terrible Life (Supernatural), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Has Panic Attacks, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Dean Winchester is Not Heterosexual, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Kink, POV Alternating, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Psychic Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revelation/pseuds/Revelation
Summary: After becoming disillusioned with his empty corporate lifestyle, Dean Smith decides to take up hunting on his days off. The first trip to the ER should have been a sign that going it alone is a death wish, but Dean's nothing if not stubborn.  ...Maybe he just wants an excuse to see the gorgeous blue eyed doctor who works the graveyard shift.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor am I making any sort of profit from writing this.
> 
> I started writing this a long time ago, and may have even posted parts of it on my old account that I can't get into anymore, but I can't find it so... *shrug* If you see this someplace else, I swear I didn't steal it.
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> I wanted to try my hand at a sort of AU story, that wasn't too far off from the canon. It's not usually a genre I go for, so I decided to use this to practice a bit before I jump off the deep end into something completely AU. It's been ages since I've written anything, so I would really appreciate any feedback you guys have.

“Damn it,” Dean swears to himself as he pulls into the Emergency Department parking lot. He's really starting to rethink the whole 'hunting' thing. His car is filthy, he's filthier, and there's a steady trickle of blood dripping down the side of his face onto his shoulder. Absently, he grabs a few discarded Burger King napkins from the passenger seat that's full of everything from empty soda bottles to junk mail, and presses them to a jagged cut that runs from above his left eyebrow to below his ear. He doesn't know when he stopped caring about keeping everything around him immaculately clean, or when he started hitting up fast food joints during his commute instead of prepping meals that actually have nutritional value. He sighs and gets out of the car.

“Sorry Baby,” He says and traces his fingers through the thick layer of mud that's coating the surface of the old Impala that he inherited from his father. He feels horrible for driving her through an hour's worth of crappy dirt roads to get to the hunt he was working on, but his shitty Prius is out of commission – again. Maybe he'll just sell it. The Impala never lets him down, and he can actually fix it himself when it does crap out on him, unlike that modern monstrosity with all its stupid computer parts.

He thinks that he probably looks like a serial killer from a low-budget horror movie, as he walks through the glass sliding doors into the ER waiting room. If anyone ever told him that he would be seen in public wearing a dirty flannel that's covered in bloodstains and graveyard dirt, he would probably shoot them with the pearl-handled Colt M1911 he never thought he would own. He makes uneasy eye-contact with the receptionist, a plump middle-aged woman, who just spaces out and stares at him for a moment before scrambling to grab a set of admittance forms as he approaches her. Thankfully, the place is otherwise deserted – as it _should_ be at two in the morning.

“No, no, don't worry about that Sweetheart,” The receptionist says in a heavy southern drawl as Dean reaches for a pen on the counter in front of him. “One of the nurses will take care of your paperwork; let's just get you checked in, and they'll have you have right as rain in no time.”

Dean doesn't reply as he follows her through an automatic door that leads to a triage exam room. It's honestly taking him a bit of effort to remain upright. Now that some of the adrenaline has worn off, he's a bit lightheaded and shaky. Blood loss, probably. He had woken up in a puddle of it, soaking through the hay strewn on the floor of the abandoned barn he had been in. He doesn't really listen as the receptionist yells at the triage nurse, who's half asleep in his chair and scrolling through something on his phone, which he drops in surprise. He has a look of horror on his face when he picks it up and sees that the screen is cracked beyond repair.

“Well, that's not pretty,” The nurse says, shoving his broken phone in his pocket and sanitizing his hands before pulling on a pair of gloves. “How'd you manage this?”

“Hunting accident,” Dean grunts in reply, handing the nurse his ID and insurance card. It's not a lie, not entirely.

“Bear with me, I'm going to need a little more detail than that so we know how to treat this,” The nurse says as he carefully examines the wound. “What did you cut yourself on?”

An image flashes through Dean's mind, of him hacking off a man's head with a machete. No, not a man. _Vampire_. The blood is everywhere, sprayed across the wall of the half-caved in barn the monster was hiding in, and soaking through his flannel. The smell of it is overpowering and completely nauseating. Just as he thinks he's done and can finally breathe, a new player shows up and hurls him into the side of a rusted old tractor. Vamp number two is a woman with curly black hair and soulless green eyes. Dean just manages to get out of the way as she comes at him with his own machete. He's not exactly an expert in combat, though, and she grabs him and smashes his face through the only window that isn't broken. He doesn't remember much after that, and she probably thought he was dead, or would be shortly. It must be why she left him there.

“Uh, I tripped in the woods. Landed on a sharp rock,” Dean lies and winces as the nurse tapes gauze over the wound.

“How are you feeling otherwise, Mr. Smith? Lightheaded? Dizzy?”

“Lightheaded and kind of nauseous,” Dean answers, wanting to curl up in the exam chair and just go to sleep while the nurse checks his vitals.

“Okay. Let's get you a bed. They'll want to do x-rays, and probably a CT scan. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Dean hates hospitals with an undying passion. Luckily, he can only recall ever having been in one once when he was kid. He had fallen off a skateboard and cracked his head open. He wasn't sure which was worse – the whole hospital phobia, or getting screamed at in front of the staff by his father for skipping school to dick around at the skate park. If nothing else, the place isn't much different from the old general hospital back in Lawrence where he grew up. It even smells the same – like too much antiseptic. Awkwardly, he pulls off the disgusting flannel and tosses it the garbage can once the triage nurse leaves him alone in one of the ER rooms. At least the t-shirt he has on underneath is relatively clean. After being poked, prodded and sent for an X-ray, the ER nurse tells Dean that there's no major damage. He's fine, aside from a mild concussion and needing stitches.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. He's got about half an hour left of battery time, and he's already rehearsing the call he's going to make to Sandover in the morning. He can go to work, but the she-vamp is still on the loose and he needs to gank her before she skips town. He should probably call Sam. He gave him his number when he quit tech support to run off and follow his dream of hunting evil, by living off stolen credit cards and greasy diner food. It's mostly pride that keeps Dean from calling him. He had told Sam, in no uncertain terms, that he belonged right where he is – the head of Sales and Marketing at Sandover. Of course, the more he thought about it, the more he started to hate his life – everything from his shitty fake persona that he wears from nine to five for six days a week, to the bland, tasteless crap he calls food. It's all because of that stupid ghost, and a spur of the moment decision to start looking for hunts on his day off – after binge watching everything on the Ghost Facers' Youtube channel. A light knock on the doorway of his room snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks up as the doctor finally decides to grace him with his presence.

“Hello, Dean.” His voice is quiet, and he moves with an almost inhuman sort of grace. Dean blinks and looks at the floor. Of course his doctor has to be freaking gorgeous with bright blue eyes and soft dark hair that's just the right amount of tousled.

“Hey, Doc.” Dean hopes he didn't catch him staring. To be fair, he probably gets that a lot – just not, Dean assumes, from dirty men covered in blood.

“I am Doctor Novak,” He says, rifling through one of the cabinets in the room for the supplies he needs. “I need to clean the wound properly, then place the stitches. After that, you are free to go and return to work in the morning.”

“Sure,” Dean replies, mostly to fill the silence. He nearly chokes on his own breath as the doctor cups his chin in his hand to tilt his head a bit, so he can get a proper look at the wound.

“You fell on a rock?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do I have to remove several shards of glass?”

Dean closes his eyes and tries to come up with an excuse, but he just can't think. Even wearing gloves, the doctor's touch feels like fire. What's wrong with him? He knows he's gayer than Freddie Mercury in drag shitting rainbows, but it's not like he goes around telling everyone, or has even been with anyone in ages. ...Like he'd even have time with his soul-sucking nightmare of a job. He made his peace with being single years ago. Maybe he's just that starved for touch.

“Dean? Are you with me?” Doctor Novak asks, frowning. “Were you drinking when this happened?”

“Nope. Haven't touched booze in years,” Dean says. “You know hunters, though... Bunch of drunks. Maybe it was a beer bottle that I fell on. I don't really remember. Knocked myself out cold.” He knows he's babbling, but it's a defense mechanism of his. The more nervous he is, the more he talks. At least he's still making sense.

“Mm hm,” The doctor mumbles, and picks up a pair of tweezers. “I am going to numb the area, but you may feel this a little bit. I need you to hold still as best as you can.”

He doesn't buy Dean's story for a minute; it's painfully obvious. He has to bite his tongue until it bleeds to keep himself from chattering about something else. The last thing he wants to do is distract the poor bastard while he's digging bits of glass and nasty barn dirt out his face. He mostly doesn't feel anything while the doctor works, but he does flinch when he pulls a chunk of glass out of his eyebrow. He doesn't move though, he just grips the side of the bed a little tighter and closes his eyes.

“Sorry about that,” Doctor Novak says quietly. “I'm almost done. The worst of it is over. You won't feel the stitches.”

Even his voice is sexy, and it's driving Dean up a wall. He would probably have a boner if he wasn't so chickenshit about the whole hospital thing. He's terrified of needles, though he'll never admit it. At least he won't be able to see him put the stitches in. He's never been more happy to be a complete pussy.

“Okay, all the glass is out. I just need to clean it, and I'll put the stitches in,” Doctor Novak tells him as he pours antiseptic over the wound and gently pats it dry with a clean bit of gauze.

Dean doesn't feel anything as the doctor sews the wound shut, other than the warm touch of his hands holding his face steady as he works. He keeps his eyes closed, and hangs onto the edge of the bed. If he can't see what's going on, he can't panic because it's fine since he can't feel it, right?

“Dean, I need you to sit up straight,” The doctor says patiently. “Breathe.”

Dean's pretty sure he's having a panic attack, or at least the beginnings of one. It's been ages since the last one, and it's usually the pressure from work that gets to him. Either way, it feels like the air is a bit too thick to breathe, and the only thing stopping him from bolting like a scared rabbit is the doctor's firm grip on his his chin as he holds his head in the position he needs.

“Dean, talk to me,” The doctor says in a calm tone. “Tell me a few things that you can hear.”

“Uh, really obnoxious beeping. One of the nurses is out in the hall talking shit about her boyfriend. A phone ringing.”

“Good. Stay with me. What can you smell?”

Calvin Klein Eternity. Why does he actually recognize it? No. Don't say that. “Peroxide?”

“It's Betadine, actually. I'm almost done. Open your eyes. What are a few things you see?”

Dean makes the mistake of looking up at the doctor. He doesn't notice Dean staring into the depths of his too-blue sapphire eyes; he's focusing on his work. What is he? Sixteen?

“Dean?”

“Your eyes are pretty.” Did he say that out loud? The doctor pauses for a second, blinks, and shakes his head. Shit. He did.

“All done,” Doctor Novak says and tapes fresh gauze over the wound. “The nurse will go over your home care instructions, and it will be on your discharge papers as well. You can see your regular physician in a week to have the stitches removed.”

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles.

“Do you have panic attacks often?” Doctor Novak asks, tilting his head a bit to the side as he watches Dean gingerly press his fingers to the dressing on the side of his face.

Dean shrugs and looks away from him. “Not recently.” It's true. He used to have them constantly. Mostly when he finally bailed on his obsessive control freak of a father to go to college. He'd think of the consequences if it ever caught up with up him, or get behind on his classwork, and... Dean shakes his head, to his immediate regret, and stares at the floor. He fought, struggled and clawed his way up to where he is now, and he's throwing it all out with this 'hunting' shit. It's stupid, but it feels right.

“Get some rest,” Doctor Novak tells him. “I'm no psychotherapist, but grounding yourself is helpful when you have a meltdown. Focus on your surroundings – things you can see, hear, smell and feel.”

“Sure,” Dean says, without meeting his eyes.

“Get some rest,” Doctor Novak repeats, before finally leaving.

Dean knows he should go straight home, but he still has a vampire to gank. Besides, he's going to have one bitch of a headache when the meds wear off. He'd rather finish where he left off while he's still functional. Maybe he'll even manage to get a few hours of sleep before work tomorrow.

* * *

It takes Dean about an hour to reach the abandoned barn the vamps were using for shelter. Carefully, he sneaks up to it, and peeks through a broken window pane – probably the one that got a little too intimate with his face, judging by the blood coating the jagged glass remaining in the frame. The female vampire that tore Dean a new one is there alone. Her face is dirty, with tear-tracks running down her cheeks. She's standing near the bodies of the other three vampires that Dean wasted. She must have dragged them inside. The scent of gasoline hangs heavy in the air, and there's a few empty red plastic canisters on the floor near her. That makes things easier. Dean knows beheading a vampire is the only way to truly kill it, but he's willing to bet that burning them does the trick too. All it takes is a match tossed through the broken window. It lands in a pile of long-dried hay and the barn is in flames before the grieving vampire can react. He stays a while, watching the old barn burn, trying to tune out the screaming and breathing with his mouth open to avoid inhaling the stench of burning flesh. He flinches as the roof caves in, and one last wail of anguish is suddenly cut short. Why does he feel sort of bad for her? She nearly killed his sorry ass.

At home, he falls into a fitful sleep and dreams of the bodies in the barn. They're wearing the faces of his family – his mother, his sister... Suddenly, it's all on fire and he's choking on smoke that reeks of death. Just as he thinks for sure that he's going to die, an all too familiar blue-eyed doctor in a rumpled lab coat is beckoning for him to take his hand. Dean reaches out; as soon as they touch he comes awake with a gasp and nearly rolls out of his bed.

Shakily, he finds his way to the bathroom and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like a pile of stale dog shit. There's bags under his eyes and his skin has a gray tinge to it – to say nothing of the slightly bloody dressing taped to his head. Carefully, he removes it and inspects the wound. The stitches are surprisingly neat considering the meltdown he had in the middle of it. Doctor Novak must have very steady hands. Dean dashes the thought from his mind and splashes cold water on his face. It's not too late to call in sick, but there's an important board meeting at noon and he's dead meat if he misses it.

* * *

The meeting probably could have been an email or two, and barely concerned Dean at all. It was about R&D shit and looking into better options for sourcing materials, nothing to do with sales. Really, he's so tired of the pompous self-important assholes he has to deal with every day. They're all so fake, faker than Kim Kardashian's ass. It isn't long before he completely loses interest in the meeting. The only thing he's thinking of, as he stares vacantly out the window at the city below, is a certain doctor with too blue eyes and a warm smile. What's wrong with him? What is he, twelve? He doesn't know why, but he just can't seem to get Doctor Novak out of his head. It's not like him to have some kind of stupid schoolgirl crush. Besides, Dean probably has better odds of getting struck by lightening and winning the lottery on the same day, than someone like the disgustingly handsome doctor being gay.

“Mister Smith.”

Dean blinks and shakes his head. “Sorry. What?”

His boss, a fat balding middle-aged man with cold gray eyes gives him a dirty look. “ I asked what your plans are to increase sales going into the next quarter,” He says, his tone slightly threatening, and his right eye twitching with barely restrained disgust. He and Dean have never gotten along.

“I want to focus on employee morale,” Dean replies. “Right now productivity is being negatively impacted by the overall lack of motivation. If they've got the motivation, they'll put in more effort. It's no secret that a lot of staff are on edge with the recent suicides.”

One of the other department head mumbles something under her breath, about just how hard he must have hit his head. The CEO just looks bored, and isn't even paying attention as he stares at his iPad. Dean excuses himself to use the facilities, and practically runs to escape the stifling atmosphere of the conference room. One again, he stares at himself in the restroom mirror. Was this really what he sacrificed almost everything for? What he abandoned his family for? Sure, he wanted to do something with his life – something bigger and better than fixing cars and managing an old salvage yard in bumfuck nowhere, but sitting in an office all day, pretending to care about Sandover's assets, is literally hell. Every day is the same thing: acting like he's someone he's not, panicking over deadlines, kissing ass to keep his job and spending every night alone because he's too fucking tired and depressed to even think about dating. He's gonna die alone one day, with no family, no legacy – nothing to leave behind for his nonexistent children, but a shitty Prius and an even shittier stock portfolio. He has to get back to the meeting. He wants to leave and never come back.

 _Breathe_ , he thinks, but hears it in Doctor Novak's voice. He imagines the doctor standing beside him. _Tell me a few things you can hear._ Easy. A toilet is gurgling, there's a rattle in the air vent, someone is laughing in the hallway and he thinks he can hear his own heartbeat. _Good_ _._ _Stay with me._ _What can you smell?_ Industrial cleaner, and someone's lingering burrito farts. Gross. _Open your eyes._ _What_ _are a few things_ _you_ _see_ _?_ His reflection in the mirror, a dick someone drew on the door of bathroom stall behind him, a fast food receipt laying in the sink, and a cracked floor tile. The bathroom's actually pretty filthy for being in fancy corporate office. He takes a deep breath, and a step back from the mirror. He wouldn't say he feels great, but it's the first time he's ever pulled himself out of a panic attack so easily, and been relatively functional afterward.

“I am so fucked,” He whispers and absently picks at his stitches.

Back in the hall, he stops in his tracks as he walks back to the conference room. He could just leave – just say fuck it, and drive off in the Impala with some supplies and hit the road. Maybe he could swallow his pride and call Sam. They could work together. Dean turns around and heads for the parking garage. He doesn't look back once. He has one last local case to look into, then he will call Sam and hit the road.

* * *

“You know, we really need to stop meeting like this.” Dean looks up at Doctor Novak as he types something on a gold iPad, without even looking at him. He's leaning against the counter in yet another ER room, with an expression on his face that's caught somewhere between boredom and annoyance. Either way, he doesn't look like he's having a good night, and Dean really hopes he isn't about to take out his frustration on him. “So, another 'hunting accident'?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies sheepishly, and glances uncertainly at the bloody towel wrapped around his left forearm. He's kept pressure on it, like the ER tech told him to, but it quickly bled through the temporary dressing anyway. There's a bullet lodged in there somewhere, that missed his heart, and everything else important, by maybe a few inches – probably only because he wasn't standing still. He guesses he can say that he 'escaped within a few inches of his life'. So can the demon he's hunting, unfortunately.

“Do you want me to call the police, and have an officer come by so you can fill out a report?” Doctor Novak asks, finally setting his iPad aside. “People don't normally get shot 'accidentally',” He adds when Dean doesn't reply.

“It's fine,” Dean snaps at him, not that he meant to. He's definitely a little shaken up. Okay, more than a little. He just got _shot_ for fuck's sake, not even two days after he got the stitches taken out from the last time he got his ass kicked. It doesn't help that the demon is, or at least was, wearing his boss' secretary. Maybe all of upper management are demons. It would explain a lot. He takes a deep breath and reigns in the panic as much as he can.

Doctor Novak sighs and sits on the edge of the bed beside him. “I am not trying to pry into your private affairs, but I want you to be aware that there are several programs and resources available to you, if this is any way a domestic abuse case. And, you can call me Castiel, if you like.”

Dean blinks and stares vacantly at him for a moment. “I... No. Cas, I've been single for so long I might as well join a monastery. I'm practically fucking celibate. It really _was_ a hunting accident.” It's not a lie, not entirely.

Cas doesn't dignify the statement with a response, which isn't exactly surprising. “Anyway,” He says, changing the subject, “According to the imaging reports I have here, you got lucky. There's no broken bones, or major severed arteries. Just soft tissue damage. Which means, you won't need surgery – other than me removing the bullet, which isn't very deep.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “Is it normal to bleed this much, though? I look like an extra in a Quentin Tarantino movie,” He chatters as Cas gets up and pulls on a pair of gloves. “And did they _really_ have to cut my shirt off?”

“Dean, it's a gunshot wound. They bleed. A lot. This actually isn't very bad,” Cas explains.

“It's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning, though, isn't it?” Dean says, mostly because he's pretty sure he might have a freak out if he doesn't keep talking. Likewise, Cas is starting to look like he might stab him with something if he doesn't shut up.

“Not if you rest and take the painkillers I am going to prescribe for you,” Cas quips as he carefully removes the soiled towel and dressing. “Lie down, Dean.”

Dean does as he's told, and considers asking Cas if he can just sedate his miserable ass. “Hey, Cas? Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I've never seen one, and I tend not to believe in things I can't see,” Cas replies and props Dean's shoulder up with a spare pillow. “Now, I am going to numb the area and remove the bullet. You shouldn't feel anything, and I need you to tell me if you do. I need you to keep still.”

“Do you know any Latin?” Dean asks, pretty sure he's actually pissing Cas off at this point. Maybe that was where he went wrong. Maybe he mispronounced something earlier.

“My father, and grandfather are Roman Catholic priests. As were all their fathers before them. I probably know more Latin than the professors that teach it,” Cas replies. “Why?”

“I'm, uh, working on something for this history of Religion class I'm taking, but I'm pretty sure I can't actually pronounce any of it right,” Dean explains, and digs a folded up photocopy of an exorcism that he found at the library out of his wallet, while Cas is getting his supplies ready. “I mean, if you don't mind, could you tell me how to say it right?”

“I suppose I can do that,” Cas tells him. “It will take a few moments before this is numb enough for me to work.”

“Thanks, I owe you one,” Dean says as he hands Cas the photocopy.

“Well, your insurance company certainly does,” Cas mumbles. “'Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus',” He reads, and gives Dean a questioning glance. “This is an exorcism.”

“Yes,” Dean confirms.

“You aren't hunting deer, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Cas breathes and hands it back to Dean. “I know every word of that. While I work, you will read it to me and I will correct you as necessary. Maybe it will even keep you having another panic attack, if your focus is elsewhere.”

Dean swallows nervously past a lump in his throat as Cas drags a chair over the side of the bed and lays his tools down on a clean towel beside Dean. He's sure Cas has seen some nightmare worthy shit working as a trauma surgeon, and he _is_ a board certified trauma surgeon – not some random ER doctor, according to what Dean found when he looked him up on online. ...Not that he's stalking him, or anything. Someone like Cas being stuck working the graveyard shift in a shitty little hospital ER must be the equivalent of Dean's failing stock portfolio. The economy really is fucked, lately. Regardless, the way he doesn't seem bothered by anything is throwing Dean for a loop. Not for nothing, but he can't have that many patients that get their heads smashed through windows, then get shot at and ask him to help properly read a fucking exorcism. There's something unnerving about how calm he is, but at the same time it makes Dean feel safe. He can't deny that something about Cas seems _different_ , and he's drawn to him like a fat cop to a doughnut shop. ...And how does the child of a long line of Catholic priests decide to say 'fuck it' and become a doctor? His name... Castiel. It sounds like something out of the Bible, and probably is. He wonders if it's annoying that he calls him 'Cas' instead.

“Read, Dean.”

Dean can feel Cas touching him, but so far there's no pain. He stares intently at the slightly blurry photocopy and starts reading. “'Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritis'.”

“Spirit _us_ , not spirit _is_ ,” Cas corrects him, as he pauses.

“'Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, congregatio et secto diabolica',” Dean continues, barely pausing enough to breathe as he can feel the dull pressure of whatever Cas is doing. It takes all the self control he has not to look away from the exorcism, to Castiel's hands that are just slightly visible in his periphery.

“Sect _a,_ not sect _o,_ ” Cas says as he uses a bit of gauze to soak up some of the blood from the wound. “Take your time and sound out the words; you're reading too fast and missing parts. You left a few words out.”

Dean keeps reading, a little more slowly, and finds that he makes less mistakes as Cas corrects him. Something about it feels almost domestic, even if anyone that walks by probably thinks they're both nuts and worshiping Satan or something. Cas finishes digging the bullet out of him, a few lines before the end of the exorcism. Dean hates himself for it, but he kind of wishes it was longer. He's sure Cas has other things to do, and as fucked up as it is, he's the closest thing Dean has had to a friend since he left for college. How sad is it that he thinks of someone he's met twice, under garbage circumstances, as a friend?

“I don't know what you're up to, Dean, but be careful,” Cas says as he cleans up his mess. “Try to rest, and take the painkillers. Follow up with your regular doctor in a few days.”

“Can I borrow your pen for a second?” Dean asks, and scribbles his phone number on a blank part of the paper the exorcism is printed on. He tears it of and hands it to Cas with his pen. “You probably won't see me again. But, if anything... _Weird_ happens, call me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel isn't sure how much longer he can tolerate life in the ER. He isn't used to dealing with patients that are conscious, or the drama that comes with the position. Of course, there isn't much need for a trauma surgeon with his credentials here. Still, he'll take what he can get. Anything is better than giving up and returning home. All that would do is prove his siblings right, that he was wrong and foolish to deviate from the choices their father made for them. He misses his home, and his family, but Castiel decided long ago that he had no interest in a life devoted to the church. He does believe in God, but he doesn't feel that he is meant to serve Him in that way. Castiel sighs and stares accusingly at the empty Starbucks cup in his hand.

He's halfway through his third fourteen hour shift out of four, and the doctor meant to take his place in the morning was called into another hospital for a special pediatric case. That means he's going to have to pull a double, when he's barely gotten four hours of sleep as it is. That can't possibly be legal, but the hospital is horrendously understaffed, and he cares too much about the patients to make a fuss about it. He wonders if he can get away with napping in the employee lounge for a bit, as he raids the coffee pot at the Nurses' station. He just hopes it'll be an easy night, without any idiots there for stupid things that could have been prevented if they just used their brains. Really, how many morons has he treated that were there because they flipped over golf carts at the country club nearby? Or, the guy the other day with his 'hunting accident'? Castiel had treated enough drunks to know that type of wound. Someone had probably smashed a beer bottle over his head. But if that was true, why wasn't Dean drunk? Then he got shot, and asked him how to read an exorcism. There's something different about Dean, and as much as he hopes the poor bastard doesn't wind up in the ER again, Castiel would like to see him again. He owes him an explanation, at least. Castiel likes to tell himself that, anyway. He shakes his head and makes a face at the coffee.

“Gross,” He mumbles, and sighs forlornly.

“It's not gross,” A nurse sitting at a computer near him comments, rolling her eyes.

“Gross,” Castiel repeats. He can't help it; he's a horrible coffee snob, but it will have to do because he's going to fall asleep standing up without the caffeine. He should probably eat too, but he isn't sure he actually has the energy to walk all the way to the cafe on the other side of the hospital. He settles on commandeering an empty office chair at the nurses' station and laying his head on the counter. Getting through the night is going to be bad enough, never mind tomorrow morning. He's never worked the day shift before, and he knows it's going to be much busier than what he's used to.

“You alright?” The same nurse asks, looking over at him. “No offense, but you look like shit.”

“I haven't slept in three days, and I have to pull a double,” Castiel replies miserably.

“Been there,” She says sympathetically. “At least it's quiet tonight. Why don't you take a nap? I'll wake you up if someone actually needs you. Doctor Martin is still here until three.”

Castiel decides that it's not a bad idea, and even better if – he squints at the nurse's ID badge – Lindsay will keep an eye out so he doesn't sleep through someone dying on his watch. He wanders into the employee lounge, that's deserted aside from the members of a local EMS squad that are taking a coffee break. If he remembers correctly, they brought in an older gentleman a short while ago – who thankfully was assigned to Doctor Martin. Castiel greets them politely; he knows almost all of them by name, aside from a young brunette woman who must be new. He's barely curled up on the couch, using his lab coat as a pillow, before he passes out.

Castiel doesn't feel like he's slept at all, when he jerks awake with his heart pounding in his chest. It's odd, he doesn't recall having a nightmare – or any dreams at all, really. Something isn't right, though. The air feels heavy and cold. As he gets up, the florescent lights flicker, casting eerie shadows across the empty lounge. Castiel shakes his head and pulls on his lab coat. Everything's falling apart, with the building being as old as it is. It's a wonder the electronics function with the amount of brownouts they get.

“Sorry!” He says quickly, as he nearly runs into a little girl standing outside of the lounge. She looks up at him, with wide brown eyes that are glassy and unfocused – like a corpse. Her long red hair is tied into two braided pigtails, and she's wearing a lacy black dress. There's an old, worn book clutched tightly in her hands. Something about her, is downright scary and Castiel doesn't scare easily.

“Where are your parents?” Castiel asks her. She ignores him and starts walking across the ER, past the nurses' station. He follows her. “Miss-!” He calls to her as she walks into the room where Doctor Martin's patient is sleeping peacefully. He's old, very old, and looks so frail that he might break if someone touches him. Maybe he's the girl's grandfather? Castiel tries to put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but she steps out of his reach and gently strokes the old man's forehead. He gasps, and starts clawing at his chest, as the girl vanishes into thin air.

“Code blue!” Castiel yells and begins CPR as the man is obviously suffering a massive heart attack, “Room twelve!”

About twenty minutes later, even with the help of three nurses and an ER tech, Castiel pronounces the man dead due to cardiac arrest. He doesn't see the little girl again, and asks Lindsay about her. Oddly enough, she looks like an older version of the little girl, with frizzy red hair tied into a neat bun. Her eyes are green, though, and full of warmth – not cold and emotionless like the little girl's. Lindsay didn't see her, though, only Castiel apparently talking to himself. Shaken, Castiel chugs what's left of his coffee and can't help but think of Dean's parting words to him. _if anything... Weird happens, call me._ He still has the torn strip of paper with his phone number scrawled on it. It's tucked inside his wallet. Castiel takes a deep breath and tosses his empty coffee cup in the trash at the Nurses' station.

* * *

He sees the little girl again, early in the morning shortly after taking a break before the shift change. She's standing outside of the maternity ward, which Castiel passes on his way back to the ER. He stares at her and follows as she walks, unseen, past the maternity ward staff and visitors. She pauses outside the room of a young woman in labor, and the lights flicker like they did the night before. The patient's alone, aside from the doctor and a nurse at her side.

“Oh good,” The doctor says as she sees Castiel standing in the doorway. “I called for the ER to send you, but they said you were on break I wasn't sure if - Never mind! We're losing her!”

Castiel springs into action, forgetting all about the creepy little girl who's still watching from the doorway. Labor and delivery isn't exactly his specialty, but he knows enough to get by – when his patient _isn't_ losing blood by the liter and fighting to stay conscious. He doesn't notice the girl until she gently takes the woman's hand in hers, and just like that – the heart monitor flatlines.

“No! Stay with me!” Castiel swears under his breath and uselessly tries to wipe the blood off his lab coat. It's too late, though. Both doctors know it. The girl, just like the first time, had seemingly vanished into thin air. They manage to save the child, a tiny girl born a month early with no known family to welcome her into the world. The nurses in the maternity ward ask Castiel to give her a name since he was the one who delivered her. He decides to call her Grace, and spends a few hours sitting beside her when he's not tending to patients. She's surprisingly healthy for how prematurely she was born. He hopes that she will find a loving family, and not be adopted by a religious psychopath, like him and his many siblings. Eventually, Castiel leaves the maternity wing, and decides to take a walk outside for some fresh air.

He's used to seeing people die; it kind of comes with the job, but something just isn't right. He sits on a bench near the hospital entrance, watching the sunlight reflect off the water fountain nearby. It almost feels strange, seeing the sun. It's dark when he goes to work, and usually dark when he leaves, aside from a few weeks in the summer when the days are longer. He's so far lost in his own thoughts about the mysterious girl, and poor little Grace, that he doesn't even notice when Lindsay sits beside him and offers him a pastry from the cafeteria.

“I appreciate it, but I am not hungry,” He tells her dismissively.

“You're having a shit day, night, whatever. I get it. But you gotta eat, man.” She ignores his protests and presses the apple danish into his hands. “You're no good to us, or the patients, if you're running on empty.”

Castiel just sighs and takes a bite of the danish. Truth be told, he's starving, but he isn't sure he won't just vomit it back up. Days like this, he wishes he had someone to go home to and rant about how fucked the world is – not that he thinks of it that much. All he cared about when he left his home, that was basically a cult, was getting his GED and getting into a good college. He never stopped to think about relationships, and ignored the countless girls who tried to drag him to parties during his college days. Of course, now he's in his thirties and still a virgin. It's kind of ironic, considering how many times he's had his hands in places he doesn't want to think about. Maybe it's not too late to go become a monk and make his father proud. Of course, neither he nor any of his siblings have seen or heard from their father in years.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Lindsay asks, picking at a chocolate muffin.

“I'm too tired to think properly,” Castiel counters.

“How much longer do you have?”

“Three hours,” Castiel replies. “Then I'm back again tonight.”

“Ouch. Get some sleep, man. And maybe see a therapist, because that little girl you keep seeing, no one else has seen her.” Lindsay gathers her things and heads to her car. Castiel sighs as he watches her go. He was so sure she was going to try to ask him out, and he's mindlessly relieved that she didn't. She seems kind, but he doesn't have much interest in dating or women. Sometimes he wonders if he's broken in some way, because he just doesn't understand everyone's obsession with sex. He watches a man and a little boy with golden hair walk past him. It takes a moment to find his resolve, but he fishes his phone out of his pocket, and finds Dean's phone number in his wallet.

“Hello, Dean.”

“...Cas?”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “ _Castiel_. My name is _Castiel._ You said to call if anything 'weird' happened.”

“What's going on?” He hears Dean reply as he's obviously fiddling with a car stereo that's blasting some obnoxious rock music. There's a few seconds of Dean cursing, and then silence.

“Well, I think I believe in ghosts now,” Castiel says, awkwardly.

“Talk to me, Cas. That's my kind of weird.”

“It started last night. I saw a little girl wandering through the ER by herself. I tried to ask her where her parents were, but she wouldn't talk to me. I followed her into a patient's room, some elderly man. I don't know; he wasn't one of mine. She touched his face and just disappeared, then he started coding. We couldn't save him,” Castel explains. “At first, I wrote the whole thing off as sleep deprivation, but it happened _again_ early this morning with a young woman who died during childbirth. The thing is, I'm the only one who's seen her and everyone else thinks I'm nuts. I _know_ she's real.”

“Wow,” Dean says. “That's not creepy at all. It's going to take me a day to get back there, so if you see her in the meantime, try and take a picture of her or something? Text it to me if you can.”

“What? Why come here?” Castiel asks, both glad and worried that he'll have to see Dean again.

“This is what I do,” Dean tells him. “I hunt things. You know, monsters, ghosts, whatever.”

Monsters? Castiel wonders what _actually_ happened to Dean when he came to the ER. The exorcism... No. Demons aren't real. That's just stupid. “Okay,” Castiel replies, at a loss for words.

“Just be careful, and don't let it touch you,” Dean says sternly.

“I'll be fine. She doesn't seem to care about me. How is your shoulder?”

“Hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Take the pills, Dean.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Make sure you eat with them.”

“Can't take that junk and drive, Sweetheart.”

“Don't call me that,” Castiel says quietly and hangs up the phone. He hesitates for a second, and adds Dean to his contact list which is otherwise full of nothing but co-workers so he knows to ignore whichever ungrateful jerk is trying to call him in on his day off.

* * *

When Castiel returns for his usual night shift, he's still dead tired. The ER is quiet, thank God. Lindsay is at the nurses' station, with her feet up on her chair while she plays a game on her phone. Another nurse, whose name he can't remember, is typing up a patient report and shooting the younger redhead dirty looks. A maintenance worker is taking apart one of the fluorescent lights on the far end of ER. Good. Maybe they'll stop flickering so much. It's all so _normal_ , yet something seems off, like it has since yesterday. There isn't anything for Castiel to do, so he wanders to the room where he saw the maybe ghost of the little girl the first time. It's empty, and the air feels a touch too cold, but otherwise nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. Bored, he goes to visit Grace. She's asleep, and the nurse in charge of watching over the newborns tells him not to get too attached – unless he wants to adopt her. Castiel just shakes his head. He can barely keep his house plants alive. He wouldn't have a clue what to do with a child.

He's barely setting foot back in the ER, when Lindsay is telling him that he has a patient. It's Dean. Of course it is. Didn't he say he would be a few days, though? Castiel tries not to think about the how or why, when he sees the paramedics carrying him in on a stretcher, broken and bloody.

“No! No! Don't you touch him!” He shouts and runs the length of the ER hall to get to Dean before the little girl, who's reaching for Dean's hand as the medics bring him to a bed. She turns to look at him and shakes her head, before taking hold of Dean's hand.

“No!” Castiel yells.

He wakes up on the floor beside his bed, tangled in his blankets and covered in a cold sweat. A dream. It was all a dream. He doesn't feel like he's slept at all. Sluggishly, Castiel makes his way to the kitchen of his little apartment and turns on the coffee pot. He sits at the small table nearby and presses his face into the palms of his hands. He thinks he needs a vacation, but he doesn't know what he would do with one. He was raised to value hard work above all else, and that there isn't any time for idleness. He will probably lose his mind if he ever actually has more than his usual days off. Still, he's working himself to death and he knows it. He gets up and makes himself a cup of coffee. His phone, which is sitting on the counter beside him, buzzes to announce a new text message. He rolls his eyes. If it's Patrick calling him back in to work, Castiel might just tell him right where he can shove that idea. ...Not that Castiel makes a habit of being rude or confrontational. He's too nice, or so almost everyone tells him. The phone buzzes again. He snatches it and unlocks the screen. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the text is from Dean, and not one of his colleagues.

_Hey Cas. Just checking in. Everything alright? You working tonight?_

_Yes and Yes,_ he replies and lays the phone back down. Is everything alright, though? He takes a glance around his colorless, sparsely decorated apartment. It barely even looks like anyone lives there. The only signs of life are the slightly untidy kitchenette, and the messy bed that he never bothers to make up properly. He really thought life would be better on his own, away from his family, but there's just no bright side to anything lately. All he really has is his job. Maybe that annoying girl in accounting is right. Maybe he should start dating. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. Growing up the way he did, in isolation from the rest of society, he's horribly awkward in social situations. For that reason, he actively avoids them. He looks through the window at the fading daylight and sighs. He needs to get a shower or he's going to be late, and there are few things in the world that give Castiel more anxiety than being late for, well, anything.

* * *

He's barely at work for an hour when a local EMT squad brings in a seventeen year old boy that was in a terrible car crash. It doesn't look good, but Castiel can't stop to think about that. He focuses on getting the boy stabilized; his blood pressure and oxygen levels are dangerously low, to say nothing of the broken bones and blood loss. Somehow, the poor kid is conscious. Delirious and in shock, obviously, but conscious. Castiel doesn't dare sedate him, though. The anesthesia will do more harm than good considering he's hanging onto life by a thread.

“Order a blood transfusion, and make sure there's a bed in the ICU because he's going straight there once he's stable,” Castiel tells Lindsay who's assisting him.

“On it, Doctor Novak,” She replies and hurries out of the room.

Castiel works quickly, dressing the boy's wounds to stop the bleeding until they can be treated properly. He talks to him the whole time, to keep him as calm as possible. It doesn't look promising. Assuming he pulls through, Castiel is almost positive he will be paraplegic. Just as he's starting to relax, thinking his patient will be stable once he gets the blood transfusion, he sees the little girl in the corner of his eye. She seems to be watching him work, with her head cocked to the side.

“Don't you dare,” Castiel says warningly. “He's just a kid.”

She starts walking toward them and Castiel grabs her wrist. She jerks her hand out of his, and looks up at him as if seeing him for the first time, or realizing that he can, in fact, see her.

“Why are you doing this?” Castiel asks. “Stop, please.”

He tries to put himself between her and his patient, but suddenly, she's gone. He turns around to see her on the other side of the bed. “Don't do this! Stop!”

“I can't,” She says in a voice that sounds like it belongs to a woman far older. “This is my duty,” Castiel practically dives across the bed to swat her hand away, but she's too fast and her small fingers are lightly brushing the boy's cheek before Castiel can get to her.

“No, no! Damn it!” He swears as the heart monitor flatlines. There's nothing he can do. CPR isn't an option because of the extent of his injuries. It might actually kill him. He tries the defibrillator, probably more times than he should, but it's useless. With shaking hands, Castiel switches off the heart monitor. The silence that follows is deafening. He sits on the edge of the bed and holds his face in his hands. He says a silent prayer for the dead child beside him, and hopes to God that Dean can deal with whatever sort of monster the little girl is. She is a monster, she has to be. What else would see it as their 'duty' to kill innocent people? With a heavy sigh, Castiel gets up and cleans out the pockets of his blood-soaked lab coat. He's throwing it in the biohazard bin, thinking that it's the second one he's gone through today, as Lindsay walks back in.

“Cancel the transfusion,” Castiel tells her quietly.

“Already did. Ann told me. I called the morgue for you. You okay?” She says, steering him out of the room.

“I will be,” He mumbles.

“Did you see her again?” Lindsay asks, curiously.

“Yes,” He replies, figuring there's not much point in lying. She probably heard him talking to her.

“Well, sorry to do this to you right now, but there's a couple of guys from the CDC here that want to talk to you,” She says, and nods toward the door to the lobby. “Something about a measles outbreak in Texas.”

“Tell them I'll be with them in a few minutes,” He says, forcing his despair under wraps for the moment, as he digs through a cabinet at the nurses' station in search of a clean lab coat. He finds one that's only slightly wrinkled and throws it on. He really doesn't want to deal with the CDC, not right now. What he wants is a cup of hot tea, and not to have to go home to his lonely little apartment in the morning and lay awake thinking about how he failed to save a kid. He reins in his emotions for the moment, and presses the button to open the open the doors to the lobby. He easily spots the two men in black suits that are chatting with the receptionist. She's smiling and they're laughing, so hopefully that means these two are less stuck-up than the last CDC rep he had to deal with.

“There's Doctor Novak,” The receptionist says, nodding to him. They both turn around to greet him, and Castiel nearly nearly falls over when he recognizes one of them. The other man is built like a brick house, and is a good foot taller than Dean, who is nearly the same height as Castiel. He doesn't seem intimidating, though.

“Dean?” He says in disbelief. “I didn't know that you work for the CDC.”

He shrugs, and winces as he unconsciously rubs at his sore shoulder. “Got tired of the FBI,” He says. “Anyway, this my partner, Sam. You have somewhere private we can talk?”

“Sure,” He says and leads them back into the ER, wondering if Dean really did work for the FBI. It seems plausible. “We can talk in my office, but I thought you might want to see something first. If it helps your investigation. I saw her again, maybe fifteen minutes ago, in here.” He leads them into the room he had just left, where the boy's body is still laying on the bed, covered by a white sheet. He didn't realize there was so much blood. It's on the floor, the side of the bed – everywhere. Castiel reminds himself to breathe, and gestures for Dean and his partner to follow him.

“Can you tell me about the patient? Cause of death?” Sam asks, gently lifting the corner of the sheet near the boy's head, unable to hide the pained expression of his face when he sees him. Castiel decides that he likes Sam, there's something warm and kind about him.

“Caucasian male, seventeen years old. Several broken bones, internal bleeding, possible severed spinal cord. He was in a bad car wreck,” Castiel explains, feeling much calmer now that Dean is there. “I had him mostly stable. We were just waiting for a blood transfusion, but she showed up and... I tried to stop her, and asked why she is doing this. She told me that it's her 'duty', and got to him before I could get to her.”

“Right, want to check for EMF?” Dean asks.

“It's a hospital, Dean. I'm sure there's ghosts here and all the electronics will give us a false reading anyway,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “Hey, are you alright?” He adds, looking to Castiel.

“I will be,” Castiel says miserably. “It's not exactly the first time I've lost a patient.”

“Anyway, we should go to your office. I have a theory and I don't think either of you are going to like it,” Sam says, glancing toward the hall behind them.

They don't talk as Castiel leads them to his office, that looks about as lived in as his apartment. There's even a bit of dust on the desk. He shoves aside a pile of ignored paperwork – some of it probably for the _real_ CDC, as Sam and Dean settle into the two chairs opposite him.

“So, what's your theory, Sammy?” Dean asks.

“I told you not to call me that,” Sam complains. “All the victims are people that were already at death's door, right? I've done some research, and I think she's a reaper.”

“I thought you said last night that reapers are invisible unless you're about to die?” Dean counters.

“Wait, like the grim reaper?” Castiel asks incredulously. “Death is a little girl with freckles and red hair in pigtails?”

“Like the fucking Wendy's mascot?” Dean comments, raising his eyebrows.  
“Yeah, a little bit,” Castiel agrees.

“They can look like anything, even a little girl,” Sam says, sounding irritable. “And they _are_ invisible but there was this one article... Here. 'Some individuals have been noted to perceive the presence of reapers, particularly those who see death often, such as combat veterans and some medical professionals'.” Sam reads, scrolling through the article on his phone. “If it _is_ a reaper, we should probably leave it alone. It's just doing its job.”

“Everyone else in the ER sees people die at least as much as I do, why can't they see her, as well?” Castiel asks, doubtfully.

“Maybe, they don't have the amount of empathy that you do,” Dean suggests.

“That's a good point, actually.” Sam scrolls through another article about reapers. “According to this some psychics, particularly empaths, can see reapers – if they've previously seen someone die.”

“Empathy?” Cas says skeptically.

“Yeah, like, you knew I was having a panic attack before I did when I first met you. And the second time, you knew exactly how to stop that from happening in the first place,” Dean explains.

“That's skill, not... I'm not some sort of psychic. You pick up things like that when you work with patients in the setting that I do. You notice signs in their behavior, and certain triggers.”

“You care enough to notice,” Sam says carefully. “And you can sense the emotions in others once you recognize the pattern. That makes you at least a _little_ bit of an empath.”

“Fine, let's say your theory is correct. How do we stop it? I can't just let this thing keep killing my patients,” Castiel snaps.

“That's just it, though. It's not killing them, not really. They're already dead. It's just guiding their souls away from here,” Sam explains.

Castiel wants to believe him, he really does, but why can't anyone else see her? He almost jumps out of his chair when Dean lightly rests his hand on his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed him get up. Unconsciously he closes his eyes and leans into the warmth of his touch.

“I wonder if you can talk to her,” Dean suggests. “Maybe she can explain herself if you catch her when she's not, you know, working.”

“It's worth a shot,” Sam agrees. “I don't think good things happen if you kill a reaper, if you even _can_ kill death. Have more people died than usual since you started seeing her?”

“No, not really,” Castiel replies, thinking about it. “People die here every day, a couple of them at least.”

“Well, why don't we have a walk around and see if she turns up?” Dean tells him, and steps toward the door. Castiel immediately misses the warm weight of his hand on his shoulder.

“I'll see if I can dig up any records of weird deaths around here to make sure she isn't a ghost. Call if you need me,” Sam says. “I'll be nearby.”

“Want to me give me the tour?” Dean asks with a wink. “We should probably stick together. You can just do your job, and I'll shadow you. Like I'm here for some kind of observation of hospital procedures or something.”

“That should be fine. I doubt we'll find her wandering aimlessly through the halls. If someone is going to die, that will most likely happen here in the ER,” Castiel agrees.


End file.
